


Insubstantial

by Hello_Spikey



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2019-09-16 05:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16948188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: Angel might have a temporary solution to Spike's ghost problem, but there's always a catch.





	Insubstantial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sueworld2003](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sueworld2003), [whichclothes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/gifts).



> **sueworld2003** challenged me to write something to go with one of her lovely images. Hubba hubba Drool drool - yeah, I had NO trouble coming up with a story. In fact, I started one with Giles, then I trashed that for Angel, then I trashed that for this different Spangel idea inspired by **whichclothes** 's lighthearted story [The Contest](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/332660.html#cutid1).
> 
> This is not so lighthearted. Spike/Angel, Angel is a big fat dick, just the way I like him. :D

Spike was feeling more insubstantial lately – like he was fading on the inside, too. He lay back on Angel’s bed, not feeling the covers behind him. He ran a hand down his chest, not feeling his own skin. He was trapped, and he knew it – like Charybdis, forever thirsting.

Right now he just wanted Angel to get home and see him all enticingly laid out before he drifted off and fell through the floor to the basement. Again. That was a sensation he could do without.

It all started with an insult. Spike doesn’t remember what he said, but it was biting and cutting enough to cross a line for Angel. Perhaps he brought up Buffy or Darla.

Angel’s look of rage subsided quickly into a smug smirk and he said, “Well, I was going to tell you about this spell to turn you solid, but now I think I won’t.”

“What now?” Spike forgot completely what they were arguing about at that point. “You’ve been holding out on me?”

Angel got a dangerous smile. “It’s not a permanent fix – something Eve got from the Senior Partners. It’ll turn you solid for about half an hour, or until the spell is dismissed.”

Spike felt like he’d just been told he was getting a new car, then found it was a new used car. Not TOO disappointed. He shrugged and tried to play it cool. “Can it be cast again?”

Angel put his hands in his pockets. “As often as I like, but not too often - the components are expensive.”

“Well get with it! Wait – let’s get some blood, some ciggies, and hot wings first. Oh! And whisky. CHEAP whisky.” Spike realized he was pacing frantically, and that Angel hadn’t made a move. “Oh come on – you aren’t going to be a dick about this?”

Angel looked up at the ceiling and rocked back on his heels. “I think I am, actually.”

Spike swung at him – which of course went right through his smug chin. He cried out in frustration, stomped around, which was frustrating too because he couldn’t make stomping noises. He stopped back in front of Angel and said, “Fine. Save it up. I’m sure you just want to use it to beat on me, anyway.”

“It is what you’re best for,” Angel’s gaze dropped to Spike’s lips, “though…”

“Pouf,” Spike said. Then he dropped his hip and ran his hands up his stomach. “Such a shame you can’t touch this tight little body, eh?”

Angel looked annoyingly nonchalant. “It’s crossed my mind.”

“Come on, Angel! You can’t just say you have a way to give me back three out of five bloody senses and then say you won’t!”

“I didn’t say I won’t. You could motivate me.”

Spike considered that. A pregnant pause descended. He tipped his head back. “I want wings, and beer, and blood.”

Angel’s smile flattened to a line. “Fine by me. Good luck getting it all together.”

“No, I mean YOU should provide those things. As compensation.”

“Getting solid is compensation. You know what? Forget I mentioned it. I’m done with this conversation.”

Spike followed Angel the rest of the day, but didn’t get him to even acknowledge him again – even when he sang Sex Pistols songs loudly while he was trying to get to sleep.

The next day, after a restless night of wandering the deserted corridors, unable to touch, unable to sleep, unable to do sod all, Spike swallowed his pride.

“Okay,” he said.

Angel looked up from his paperwork. “Excuse me?”

Spike huffed and shifted his stance. “I’m saying okay – I’m willing to blow you for a chance to be solid.”

Angel smirked. “Well, I’m a little busy now – come back at noon.”

Spike clenched his fists, missed the feel of it, and turned on his heel.

When he came back at noon, Angel was sitting back from his desk. He had an amulet in hand and a bowl of hot wings and a glass of whisky on the blotter.

That almost made Spike change his mind. Angel took hold of the amulet and spoke a few gibberish words.

“There,” Angel said, “Now you’re-“

But Spike knew immediately. He felt every nerve come to life at once, like his whole body had been an ‘asleep’ foot. He felt the air. He felt gravity. He felt the floor pushing up against him. He felt the skin stretch over his hand as he tightened his fist, he felt a little discomfort in a finger joint that had never healed right. And he felt Angel’s jaw as his fist impacted it.

The wheeled chair carried Angel back a few feet. Spike bounced on his toes – felt his toes flex in his boots, felt his fists, felt the sting of impact on his knuckles.

And then Angel said another gibberish word and it all vanished, like a curtain falling down on sensation. Spike launched himself at Angel, sailed through and into the conference room next door. Insensible with grief, it took him a while to stop floating forward.

He came back to see Angel dump the hot wings in his wastebasket.

“I’m not your whore,” Spike said.

Angel said nothing in response. There was no sign of the amulet.

So Spike went to Fred, who hadn’t heard about this amulet thing. And when she brought it up to Angel, Angel shrugged and said, “Can ghosts have dreams? Maybe he dreamed that.”

It galled him that Angel could lie so easily and be trusted, when Spike had told the truth sometimes and not been trusted, just because he had more recently been evil.

He pestered Fred until she said she would look into it, really, but he could tell she thought the problem was in his head.

Then Angel started watching porn in the evenings. It wasn’t his usual thing. When he was evil, he much preferred live entertainment, and with the soul he was too Catholic or something to admit to enjoying it. But there he was, watching gay porn when Spike drifted into his suite.

He could have just ignored it – gone somewhere else, but after a certain point in the evening, Angel was the only one in the building to pester, aside from the cleaning staff, and Spike liked most of them.

So there he was, watching Angel jerk off in front of a lovely high-definition, wide-screen ass fucking. The sound was perfect, the slaps on screen matching the pace of Angel’s fist. A young, perfectly formed ass flexed and pushed into the camera, glistening with sweat and oil.

Whether ghosts could get hard was a moot point – they could get turned on; they just couldn’t do anything about it. Forgetting himself, Spike said, “Christ, what I’d give to feel that.”

Angel kept his eyes on the television. “You could be, but you had to be a brat.”

Spike may have actually whimpered.

Angel stood and turned to him. His trousers were still open and parted, his thick cock hanging proudly out. He held his belt with one hand and reached into his back pocket, pulling out the amulet.

“You’ve been carrying the sodding th-”

Spike’s protest was cut off as Angel said the magic words. He gasped, feeling heavy, feeling his own cock swell, feeling. And then Angel’s lips were on his, and they tasted heavenly. Hints of peat and oak from Angel’s favorite whisky, traces of blood. Saliva. The texture of tongue and teeth and lips, soft and rough and smooth and hard.

He did moan, then. And he licked and sucked along Angel’s stubbly jaw, mad to put his lips on everything, like a newborn. Naturally he ended up between Angel’s legs, but where before he’d felt incensed by the idea, now he was happy to oblige. The spongy head pressed nicely under his tongue, and the shaft was so interestingly hard, the veins and wrinkles of skin fascinating. He could suck hard and feel the flesh conform to the roof of his mouth, he could nibble at the ridge of the glans and feel trembles in Angel’s thick, muscular legs. Then there was a bright pain, sharp and repeating – hair pulling. He could hear strands snapping. So he let himself be guided up and then back down and re-discovered the joy of flesh passing over his lips, in and out, sliding and bumping. The head compressed hard against the back of his throat so he opened up and took it down, letting his lips slide all the way down to the musky hairs at the base. He wanted to touch everything all at once. He was humping against Angel’s leg and didn’t care in the slightest. He loved the rough feel of his own jeans, the near-pain of it. He loved the poncy expensive wool slacks, so soft and fine bunching under his hands, contrasting with the hard muscle underneath just like the thing skin of Angel’s cock against his tongue.

Angel rammed into him hard, choking him and the sensation of breathlessness was another to savor. As was the sudden violence of Angel coming, and his gasped plea to stop just before it.

Spike swallowed the sharp bitter flavor, felt it diminish as he licked the softening cock. Angel hauled him up and kissed him again, passionately and gratefully. His big heavy hand mauled over Spike’s trapped cock. Sparks fired behind Spike’s eyes and he FELT everything, all at once, the universe exploding and re-forming in a puddle of loose limbs and Angel’s lips.

It wasn’t like he’d forgotten how amazing an orgasm felt – hunger was the greatest spice, abstinence the greatest aphrodisiac.

Spike slowly became aware of the discomfort of having spewed all over the inside of his tight jeans, but he didn’t quite care enough yet to do anything about it. He was composing poems in his head.

“Fuck,” said Angel, and Spike laughed because that sounded like the perfect conclusion.

“Never thought you’d ask,” Spike said, lifting up onto his elbow. They were sprawled together on the floor in front of Angel’s sofa.

Angel looked a little helpless. “In a minute,” he said. He raised his hand and cupped Spike’s cheek, his broad thumb rubbing nicely over the bone.

Spike leaned into the caress. “We could have been doing this ages ago if you weren’t such a prick about it.”

“ **I** was a prick?”

Spike raised both eyebrows and lowered his chin. “You could have turned me solid at any moment. How about when you were fighting that Jacknar demon last night? I could have helped.”

Angel looked pained. His head fell back against the carpet. “I shouldn’t have used it.”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“It… it might be evil. Eve said it was powered by my soul – it could eat it away. I had Wes check it out, and he’ll take it away if he knows I didn’t destroy it.”

Spike stared at Angel, who for a long time kept his eyes shut. He was also wise enough to look apologetic when he did open them.

Spike swallowed, hard and bitter. “So this is it, then?”

“Spike, I…”

Spike straddled Angel. “Let’s not waste any of the time, then.”

Angel nodded, and they kissed, and together they got their clothes off in record time. It felt good to have skin on skin and they rolled around together. A glass fell off the coffee table, spilling the small amount of whisky still in it, which reminded Spike of something else he wanted to do before he went ghosty again. He climbed over Angel and grabbed for the bottle.

Angle took hold of his waist and pulled him back. They wrestled a bit, spilling more whisky down Spike’s front, which Angel obligingly licked up. Spike forgot to be cross about the loss of alcohol and wrapped his arms around Angel, lifting into his ministrations.

Soon they were half on the sofa again, Spike bent over the butter-soft leather while Angel worked oh so carefully and smoothly into him. They rocked together, no words, just touch.

And then, like a curtain falling, it all went away. Angel let out a yelp and fell through Spike, landing sprawled in a ridiculous way.

Spike wanted to tremble with rage, but even that was denied him. “Half an hour – I thought you said it would last half an hour.”

“I- I’m not sure when we started…”

The soft moans of the porn film still filled the room. Spike decided he just needed to be somewhere else, and he was.

And it hurt. His thirst for sensation had been rekindled, and fed a tiny bit and then ripped away, leaving emptiness.

Now he wanted to write the sort of poems kids with too much black eyeliner filled their high school notebooks with.

He floated through corridors without looking at them. Somehow, Angel found him. Angel was fully dressed and freshly showered, so it must have been some time. Spike glared hatefully at him.

“We can do it again,” Angel said.

“Wes doesn’t think so.”

Angel grimaced. “Fuck Wes.”

“Well, you _can_ can’t you?”

“Jesus, Spike.” Angel turned and left.

Spike watched him walk back the way he came and envied him the solid clack of his shoes on the tile floor. What was worse was he was thinking about touching Angel, because Angel was all he could remember having touched.

Still, he knew he had to put it out of his mind. It wasn’t like they could do it again – not if what Angel had said was true, and Angel had looked embarrassed enough to make Spike believe him.

Best forget it and go back to being a pain in the ass – it was the one compensation of haunting.

It couldn’t have been more than one day later, when Spike was getting in Angel’s face about something or other and hadn’t noticed that the rest of the group had left until Angel grabbed hold of him, and smiled the dirtiest smile ever to grace a demon’s face.

Spike couldn’t pretend he didn’t know that the best thing to do would have been refuse, hold the moral high ground, and tell Wes. He heard himself think this as his lips devoured Angel’s and his hands hungrily tore at his expensive Armani suit. The moral high ground had nothing on the sensations hitting his system like heroin.

Angel took him hard against the wall and Spike pushed back into the pain and shouted encouragement while his fingers dug into the plaster. It was a hard, violent fuck with Angel’s fangs pressing sloppily into his shoulder, too busy fucking to bite. Spike was just getting past the pain and into the pleasure, stripping his own cock with one hand while he tried to keep himself from bashing his brains into the wall with every thrust with the other, when Angel seized up against him, coming hard, digging a little extra deep, but when Spike pressed back into it, so agonizingly close and just needing a tiny bit more - he suddenly felt nothing and Angel’s seed was painting the wall.

Amazingly, your balls could still feel blue when you couldn’t feel. Spike howled in frustration and tried several times to punch the wall.

Angel leaned his sweaty forehead against his arm on the wall. “The time… the time is really variable.”

“The time is bloody sadistic!” Spike ran his fingers through his hair and paced. “It’s evil. Obviously evil. Destroy the bloody thing.”

Angel smirked and pushed himself up from the wall.

“What? What does that face mean? You selfish git, just because you got YOUR end away!””

“Whatever, Spike. You want the amulet destroyed? Just tell Wes.” He gave Spike one last smug glance and went into his washroom.

“See if I don’t!” Spike called after him, and set off to do just that.

Except maybe it wasn’t such a good idea – in case there was an apocalypse coming and a temporarily-solid Spike was just the thing to end it.

Except maybe he was too weak, and that was precisely what Angel’s smirk had been about. Spike felt abuzz with pent up sexual frustration. He couldn’t even wank.

Something shifted then – maybe something in Angel, maybe something in himself, but Spike didn’t like it.

“No, Spike. Not again. You’re the one who said we shouldn’t. You’re a fucking tease, you know that?”

“I’m not… okay, I was… but can’t you study it or something? There’s got to be a cure for my ghostliness.”

Angel walked right through him, which was not something he was normally wont to do. “If you want my attention, Spike, you’re going to have to convince me you deserve it.”

“Convince you?! Why, you self-important cock!”

But Angel only smirked, and proceeded to ignore Spike. He’d gotten better at it. He ignored Spike all day, and the next, even when he sang off-key next to him in the shower.

And then he found Angel and Wesley together. They were tangled up in Angel’s bed, whispering to each other, naked and post-coital. Spike wasn’t proud of shouting “Oi!” at them. Wesley had scrambled to cover himself, but Angel had nuzzled his ear and gotten him to calm down.

They then ignored Spike. Well, Wesley kept his face hidden and his body covered, and Angel ignored Spike.

That… well, Spike had to strike back. He told himself that was what he was doing. He had been learning a little – how to change his appearance, how to move an object if he concentrated hard. He had experimented with dropping the coat, putting it back on.

So he dropped the coat, then his shirt, then his jeans and docks. He draped himself over Angel’s desk. He didn’t worry that someone else would come in – more the merrier to embarrass the poof.

He couldn’t feel his own cock, which was a shame, but he was frustrated enough that he had no trouble imagining it hard and ready and it looked just right sliding in and out of his fist.

Angel stopped for half a second. Then he got half a smile. “Well,” he said, “that’s a start.”

Then he sat down in his chair and got out some papers which he set down to read right behind Spike’s ass.

“A start?” Spike swiveled to face Angel, placing his feet on each arm of his chair. “I should think this is a damn sight better than ‘a start’.”

Angel glanced up briefly. “You don’t deserve a treat – you’ve been an obnoxious ass all week.”

“Oi! I’m not begging you for some scrap of affection, here. I’m tormenting you with my gorgeous, unobtainable body.”

Another brief flick of the eyes and Angel gestured with his pen. “Shave, and we’ll talk.”

Spike sputtered at Angel, but then he happened to think about shaving his groin, so of course it appeared hairless in an instant. Angel’s smile broadened and he looked at Spike from under his brow. “Very good.”

Spike knew for certain that he should have said no at that point, but he was so frustrated and angry and somehow the anger short-circuited into more lust when Angel put his hands on him and he was shivering all over at the contact and wrapping his legs around Angel and murmuring pleas and gratitude.

That’s pretty much where it all went to hell, and Spike can’t blame anyone but himself, and his own greed for sensation. The next time, Angel wasn’t satisfied until Spike got himself some pretty chains. Then he had to start finding toys and setting them out.

He’s a toy, himself. Waiting to be used. He doesn’t entirely exist when Angel’s not with him. He hates that. But he still keeps dancing attendance, still opens his legs and his mouth and his heart every time.

He knows he shouldn’t let it keep happening. That he shouldn’t play the game. But he’s forgetting why. All he can remember is the taste of Angel’s lips.


End file.
